Gua.
“Private!”
“Lieutenant!”
“Where is Han?”
Ai Gua pointed up toward the roof. After the catwalk had failed, the two men had climbed up onto the roof, trying to hold off the Vietnamese from there. Seeing that wasn’t working well, Ai Gua had just climbed down the work ladder, hoping to attack the Vietnamese from the side.
“Good idea,” Jing Yo told him. “Come on.”
“Your hand.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
As they started for the ladder, the tower rocked with a pair of small explosions. Han had tossed a pair of grenades down to the ground, hoping to give them some cover.
Any relief the explosions had provided was temporary — bullets began slicing into the tower skin when Jing Yo was about halfway down the side.
It was too high even for Jing Yo to jump. He continued downward, another four or five rungs before one of the bullets caught him in the back, slamming into his bulletproof vest.
While the vest absorbed the bullet and much of the impact, the force felt like a horse’s kick in the ribs. Jing Yo’s grip loosened on the rungs. Feeling himself falling, he pushed out with his legs, centering his balance as he plummeted the last twelve feet to the ground. He hit evenly, legs and spine loose as he had been taught, and rolled off to the side, tumbling over and coming up on his knee.
Ai Gua was in the grass nearby, firing toward the other side of the parking lot. Shaking off the shock of the impact, Jing Yo got up and ran to him. He tapped him on the head, indicating he should follow, then ran to the side of the tower, beginning to circle around toward the door area.
An armored personnel carrier moved down the access road toward the tower. Jing Yo fired a few shots at it, trying to hit the gunner sitting in the upper hatchway. His aim was off, and all he succeeded in doing was drawing the gunner’s attention — the man swung his heavy machine gun around.
As the first bullets began to rake the concrete, white smoke blossomed from the gun. There was a white flash, followed by a volcanic eruption of fire — Han had hit the APC with a rocket-propelled grenade from above.
Jing Yo took two steps out from around the side of the building. Men lay everywhere. A few moved. Others were frozen in position, dead.
On the access road, soldiers filed beyond the APC, two abreast, trotting toward the building. He laced them with bullets, sweeping his automatic rifle front to back. The men twirled and fell like rag dolls, caught completely unaware.
As the APC smoldered, Jing Yo ran to it, crouching at the side as he fired into the small wedge of men near the door to the tower. One or two managed to get off shots at him as they fell; most simply went down. He tossed his magazine and continued to fire until no one moved.
Ai Gua ran up behind him.
“Two more APCs coming up the road,” said the private.
The two vehicles crossed through a field of high grass. Their machine guns were already zeroed in on the tower.
“Come on,” he told Ai Gua, jumping up. “Quickly.”
They made it across the parking lot without being shot at. Once in the grass, Jing Yo began circling to the left of the approaching armored vehicles. The soldiers who had been mounting the attack on the tower knew they were there and, apparently realizing what they were up to, began firing into the field. But the grass hid Jing Yo and Ai Gua well enough that they realized it was a waste of ammunition.
The APCs, meanwhile, continued in a long arc designed to take them around to the Vietnamese; once there, they would undoubtedly lead another attack on the building. Both vehicles were only equipped with heavy machine guns, but they would provide plenty of cover for a new charge.
Jing Yo got to within twenty meters of the lead carrier when he spotted a soldier running alongside it. The lieutenant stopped in the grass, watching as other soldiers appeared — there were at least a half dozen, moving alongside the vehicles.
“What do we do?” whispered Ai Gua.
“Go that way.” Jing Yo pointed to his left. “Get around to the other side that they’re taking. In sixty seconds, I’ll begin firing.”
“Against all those men?”
“We only have to slow them down until the landing teams can fight their way here,” said Jing Yo. “We just have to get their attention.”
Ai Gua looked dubious.
“Go!” Jing Yo reached out his arm and pushed the private. “Go.”
Ai Gua shoved away, crouching as he ran. Jing Yo hoped to get the Vietnamese in a crossfire, but even if he succeeded, he and his private were badly outnumbered. They were down to their last rounds, without any more grenades.
The most they could hope for was to delay the APCs. Every minute they won would increase the odds that the men in the tower would survive.
Jing Yo moved slowly, paralleling the vehicles. He began counting softly to himself, measuring Ai Gua’s pace, waiting for him to get into position.
When he reached one hundred, he raised his rifle and fired.
The soldiers near the APCs, at least those he could see, went down.
But the vehicles didn’t stop moving.
Bullets began flying around him. Jing Yo hugged the ground, then began squirming around to his left.
Maybe he could sneak up on one of the Vietnamese soldiers, take his grenades, then force open the hatch.
The idea formed in his head, not yet a plan. He rose to all fours and changed course, thinking he might have an easier time taking one of the men from the rear. As he got up, a long, shrill whistle vibrated at the back of his skull. Jing Yo threw himself forward instinctually, his muscles reacting before his brain could give the command.
The first artillery shell landed almost directly on the APC. A second and third bracketed it, spraying clods of grass and dirt through the air.
The shells began to fall in a thick rain. Some of the Vietnamese soldiers who had been with the vehicles began to run back in the direction they’d come, trying to escape. Jing Yo watched as they ran through the steady downpour of bombs. For a few seconds, it appeared as if they might escape the onslaught. Then a shell struck near the lead runner. A swirl of dirt enveloped him, and he disappeared like a magician escaping in a cloud sent by heaven. The man closest to him continued to run, apparently unharmed.
Then the next shell hit. This time, the air seemed to turn red. Four men fell. Another flew into the air, tumbling over like an acrobat as a series of explosions pummeled his lifeless body.
The artillery fire increased. Belatedly, Jing Yo realized he was in just as much danger as the Vietnamese. He began backing away through the grass, staying as low as possible as the shells continued to fall.
Several of the Vietnamese soldiers who’d been waiting for the APCs to appear were mesmerized by the shells. They stood watching them land in the field, oblivious to the gunfire a few hundred meters away.
He had only one magazine left, the one in his gun. Shooting them was a waste, of bullets — they were out of the battle, out of the war. They were useless as soldiers, little more than dead men waited to be buried.
Jing Yo almost wanted to warn them, to tell them to get down. One by one, they started to go down. At first, Jing Yo thought they had been caught by stray bullets. Then he saw Han firing from the top of the tower, squeezing off single bullets.
A Vietnamese soldier lying in the field a few dozen meters away rose, bringing up his gun to target Han. Jing Yo aimed his own weapon, taking the enemy soldier in the side of the head.
Blood spurted as the bone shattered like a piece of overripe fruit.
